


Say Goodbye to Yesterday

by KorilineshipsDestiel247



Series: Finding Oneself [3]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: Depression, Gen, M/M, Mental Illness, Mentioned cutting, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of attempted suicide, Original Characters - Freeform, Original work - Freeform, Transgender, Transphobia, lgbtq+, mentioned child abuse, mentioned self-harm, mentions of drug abuse, psych hospital, transgender character, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5986492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KorilineshipsDestiel247/pseuds/KorilineshipsDestiel247
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "Forget You're Made of Glass", Jensen checks into a psych ward to try to get help for his problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Goodbye to Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> These characters are all my own. If you'd like to use them in your own writing (though I don't know why you would), please ask me first. Any resemblance that my characters and events may have to real people and events is completely coincidental.

Jensen sits in the cramped intake office, avoiding the RN’s eyes. He’s pretty sure the guy is annoyed that he won’t look up, but whatever. He’s getting admitted to a psych ward; he can be forgiven for being somewhat anti-social. He can’t help but feel naked; they confiscated his bag of things that Brandon packed so lovingly for him yesterday with the excuse that they needed to check for any health hazards. They could’ve at least left him the teddy bear; Bran had packed it “so that you won’t get too lonely at night, babe.”

“So, Jacqueline,” the RN begins, clicking his pen open.

“Jensen,” says Jensen quietly, not looking up from his bandaged arms.

“I’m sorry?”

“My name is Jensen.”

He’s still examining the individual threads of the gauze bandages but he can hear the RN scratching away with that stupid pen, probably leaving a note for the doctor like “Patient is delusional”, “Patient doesn’t know her own name” or some such shit. That’s what happened to him when his parents had him hospitalised in that hellhole for four months, back when he was eighteen, so he wouldn’t be surprised.

But then, he reasons with himself, this isn’t one of those Christian “hospitals”. This is a public hospital. None of that aversion therapy or “praying the sin away” or forced self-flagellation or what fucking have you.

“So… Jensen… My name is Gene, and I’m going to be helping you get situated today. I’d like you to answer a few questions for me,” the RN says. “This is just to assess the level of care that would benefit you the most.”

Jensen raises an eyebrow but says nothing. After a long pause, Gene clears his throat. “Oo-kay then. So before we start, do you have a medical proxy, someone that we can contact the case of an emergency?”

“Yeah,” Jensen says. “My boyfriend Brandon Yukimura.”

“Phone number?”

“327-4657.”

“Address?”

“1265 Arnold Street, Apartment 312.”

“Is that your address too?”

“Yes.”

Gene writes down his answers and then looks up. “So can you tell me in your own words why you’re here?”

In answer, Jensen holds up his arms and raises an eyebrow. Gene just looks at him, obviously waiting for him to verbalise his thoughts. He sighs. “I do drugs. I’m suicidal. I tried to kill myself. I want to get better and stop doing drugs.”

Gene simply writes down the information. “How did you try to kill yourself?”

“I slit my wrists.”

“Do you often think about killing yourself?”

Jensen briefly considers lying, then discards the idea. “Yes.”

“Do you often think about killing other people?”

‘Who hasn’t on occasion?’ “No.”

“Do you have a history of violence toward other people?”

“No.”

“What drugs do you use?”

“Prescription drugs, usually. Sometimes ecstasy, pot or ‘shrooms, if I can afford them.”

“What prescription drugs do you abuse?”

“Adderall, Ativan, Ibuprofen… Basically whatever I have in the medicine cabinet.”

And on, and on, and on… The questions are so predictable that a few times Jensen almost dozes off. Or that could be the pain medication in his system, but whatever. To keep himself awake, he examines the office. Not that there’s much to examine; it’s a small room with dirt-streaked white walls, a desk, two chairs and a plant in the corner. Jensen thinks that the pot of dying orchids looks like he feels.

“…will be in shortly.”

“I’m sorry?” he asks Gene.

“I said that the doctor will be in shortly. It might be a bit of a wait, so make yourself as comfortable as you can. Or, you know, something.” He chuckles. Jensen can’t help but quirk a bit of a smile himself.

As soon as the door closes behind Gene, Jensen slouches down in the uncomfortable wooden chair and stares blankly at the wall. Flashes of the last week run through his head: staring, mesmerised, as his blood pattered softly on the bathroom linoleum; Bran kissing him after he said he would seek help; the panic attack he had yesterday when he was told he’d be transferring to the psych ward on Sunday. He lets the memories fill him up, his mind projecting them on the walls in splotches of radiant reds, vibrant blues and greens, violent yellows…

The door opens again, snapping Jensen out of his reverie, and in walks the doctor. She’s a tall woman, probably in the late stages of middle age, with greying hair swept up into a bun and hazel eyes that speak of her years of experience. Her nametag says that she is Doctor Amber Schumacher. Her authoritative demeanour automatically puts Jensen on edge. He straightens up and his fingers worry at the edges of the seat.

Doctor Schumacher sits down at the desk and shuffles and flips through her papers for a few moments. Jensen waits patiently. It feels like all he’s done for the last week is wait, but he can do a little more of it. When she’s done doing what he sees as meaningless fidgeting, she finally looks up at him. “Hello, Jacqueline,” she says with a smile. Jensen can tell that it’s fake. “I’m Doctor Schumacher. I just wanted to talk to you for a little bit, if that’s all right?”

‘It’s not like I can refuse, lady,’ Jensen says silently. Out loud, he says, “Didn’t Gene write something about my name being Jensen on the chart?”

Doctor Schumacher briefly glances at the chart and then gives him a condescending smile. “Yes he did, but I prefer using legal names. It makes it easier for me.”

Jensen bristles. “I don’t particularly care what’s easier for you, especially if it makes me uncomfortable. My name is Jensen Christopher Metzinger and I use male pronouns. If you won’t respect that, I’d like to request a different shrink.”

She gets a look on her face like she’s swallowed a lemon. Jensen smirks; that face reminds him of Mommy Dearest whenever she would look at his newly shorn hair, his baggy pants, anything that made him look more masculine and less like her perfect little girl. “Unfortunately, the other therapist isn’t in today,” she says stiffly. “He’ll be in tomorrow; I’ll talk to him about changing. In the meantime, this will have to do.”

Jensen clenches his teeth and nods. He can’t do anything about it right now; he might as well get it over with.

“So,” she begins again, this time leaving out any mention of a name at all, “I saw Gene’s write-up, but I want you to tell me in your own words what brought you here.”

“I was abusing prescription meds and tried to kill myself,” recites Jensen.

Doctor Schumacher jots something down and sets the pen carefully on the paper. “Why did you abuse prescription drugs?”

Jensen sure as hell isn’t going to tell this lady the real reason why. The reason why can wait for when he gets a better therapist who doesn’t remind him of his holy-roller parents. “Because I wanted to see what it felt like. It was pretty awesome, honestly.”

“But it must not have been that awesome if you tried to kill yourself and ended up here.”

Jensen shrugs. “My boyfriend broke up with me. I thought he was gone for good.”

“And tell me a bit about your boyfriend?”

“No.”

She sighs quietly but lets it go. “So were you forcibly admitted or did you admit yourself?”

“I admitted myself.”

“So you must want to get better. That’s good.”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Well deduced, Watson.”

Doctor Schumacher writes something down and then looks back up. “Are you thinking about killing yourself right now?”

“Yes.” ‘To get away from you.’

“Do you have a plan?”

“No.” ‘Yes; to bash my brains in on this wall. God lady, shut up.’

“Are you in any danger of trying to kill yourself in the next 48 hours?”

“No.” ‘I don’t fucking know; I can’t see the future.’

“Are you in any danger of attempting to abuse drugs?”

“No.” ‘Yes.’

The doctor writes down Jensen’s answers and then stands up. “Stay here while I get an RN,” she says before walking out of the room, leaving Jensen alone again.

“Nice bedside manner, lady,” he mutters.

After ten minutes, he grows bored. It didn’t take this long for someone to come in last time. He gets up and starts pacing. ‘I spy with my little eye something white.’ He looks around for something of that colour. Not that it’s difficult; the walls, the ceiling, the floor… All white. ‘Found it.’

Eventually his pacing and his dull game of I Spy take him over to the window. He opens the blinds to look out. He’s kind of expecting there to be bars on the window like in Girl, Interrupted, but there is nothing but a flimsy half torn screen on the other side of the glass. It looks like someone else tried to tear it open so that they could jump. Maybe they did jump. Jensen feels a certain solidarity with that person; if he were stuck in this dull room with that lady as his therapist he’d try to jump too. He opens up the window and pops his head through the tear in the screen. Looking down, he can see that he’s on the seventh floor. He laughs quietly to himself; who the hell thought it would be a good idea to put a ward full of suicidal, homicidal and psychotic people on one of the highest floors?

He wonders what it would be like to fly. He’s contemplating finding out, curiosity warring with his fear of heights and his, well, desire to not die – which is a strange feeling for him after having been suicidal ever since he started coming to terms with being trans five years ago at fifteen – but then he hears the door handle turn. He quickly pulls back and turns to look at Gene, who’s holding his bag.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Getting some fresh air,” Jensen replies, closing the window. “It smells like transphobic dickbags in here.”

Gene tells him to step away from the window, but he looks as if he’s fighting a smile as he hands Jensen his bag and ushers him out of the room and down a hallway.

“All right, so this is the nurses’ station,” he says, pointing toward a circular desk encased in plexiglass in the middle of a circular open area at the intersection of three hallways. “If you need anything, just go over there and ask. They won’t give you everything you ask for, but if you need a menu or someone to stand watch while you shave they’ll probably do that for you, depending on your restrictions. That next to the nurses’ station” –he points to the cart on the left- “is the linen cart. Patients are allowed a maximum of three blankets period and one towel a day from the cart. This hallway that we’re walking down right now is the hallway with all the therapists’ and psychiatrists’ offices, and this room” –he gestures to a room as they pass by- “is the medication dispensary. They give you your psych meds, and they can give you pain meds and sleep medication as well if your doctor prescribes you any.”

“What meds would I be on?” Jensen asks.

“I can’t tell you that because I don’t have that information,” says Gene. “Since this is a Sunday you’ll have to wait for the psychiatrist appointment until tomorrow. You’ll find out your medications then.”

They stop at the nurses’ station and stand in front of a giant whiteboard that is attached to the wood of the desk. “This is the whiteboard with all the names of the patients. Yours will be put up soon. The spaces next to the patients’ names are their therapist, psychiatrist, room number and level.”

“Level?” says Jensen. He’s heard of levels, but they didn’t have them at the Christian “psych hospital” that he was sent to; everyone was locked in their rooms when they weren’t in individual or group “therapy” or being forced to go to chapel to pray their “sins” away.

“Yeah. At each level you get different privileges. Level ones aren’t allowed to leave the unit or have outside food. Level twos get to go to the rec room downstairs; level threes are allowed to order food from outside once a week; level fours are allowed on day trips with the other patients, and level fives are allowed to leave the unit on a day trip once a week if they’re accompanied by family or a staff member. Now, the right wing is long-term patients and the left-wing is short-term patients. You’ll be on the short-term side for now until we can fully evaluate the level of care that you need, so you won’t be able to advance beyond a level two unless you get moved to the right wing. You move up a level for good behaviour and you drop down a level for bad behaviour. It’s pretty simple so I feel like you’ll do fine here if you just follow the rules.”

Jensen nods.

“Would my boyfriend count as family?”

“Since he’s your medical proxy he does count as family. You’ll be able to go out with him, but friends can’t take you out. They can visit you in here if you put them on your visitor’s list though.”  
“Okay.”

Behind the nurses’ desk is a common area, which Gene explains is for recreational purposes whenever the patients have down time, though it’s also occasionally used for groups. There are two rooms off of the common area, which Gene explains are the art therapy room and the musical therapy room.

“You have art therapy?”

“Yep. Sometimes patients find it easier to express themselves in their artwork than it is to express themselves in words.”

Jensen might actually be able to get on board with this whole getting help thing; he just hopes that they have acrylic paint instead of shitty washable kiddie paint. He’s found that with washable paint the colours aren’t nearly as vivid.

“All right, Jensen, your room is going to be 704. It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll do the job while we assess the level of care that you’ll need.”

“Will I be rooming with someone else?”

“Yes,” says Gene. “Her name is Dawn. I think you might like her; she’s kind of sarcastic too.”

“Is there an option for me to get a single room?” Jensen asks.

“Nope,” says Gene. “No single room for you unless you’ve got a history of violence against other people, dude. Sorry; I figure that’s gotta be tough for you. I’m assuming you’re FtM?”

Jensen nods.

“So is my little brother. It’s difficult for him to have to use the girls’ restroom at school. Society isn’t exactly the greatest for people who don’t fit in, is it?”

Jensen would laugh if he didn’t feel like he were going to cry. Instead he nods again.

“No worries,” Gene says, smiling. “If anyone gives you trouble because of who you are you can come talk to me whenever I’m on duty.”

Jensen attempts to smile back. He’s not quite sure if it works.

They walk down the short-term stay wing until they reach room 704. Gene knocks and opens the door and looks in. “It looks like Dawn isn’t here right now, so you’ll have a little bit of time to yourself to get settled, get acclimated and all. You know where the linen closet is, so you can make up your bed and rest until dinner, or come out and socialise. It’s really up to you.” He starts to walk away and then stops. “Oh! Have you filled out a menu?”

“No,” Jensen says.

“Well, why don’t you do that?”

At this point Jensen just wants to sprawl out on the uncovered mattress and fall asleep, but he probably should fill out the menu if he wants to eat tonight so he goes into the room and puts his paper bag full of clothes on the bed before walking back down the hall to the nurses’ station with Gene.

The nurse behind the glass is a greying woman with horn-rimmed glasses, and she looks up and smiles as he approaches. “What can I get for you, dear?”

“Uh… Can I please have a menu?”

“Why of course you can! Hold on just a minute.” She rummages around under the desk and comes out with a brochure. “Here’s the menu and here’s a pen,” she says. “You can just fill it out here.”

Everything looks awful to Jensen, but he picks out something that might be halfway decent and not make him want to barf. The woman smiles again as he slides the menu and the pen back to her. “You have a good day now, dear,” she chirps.

“You too,” he answers automatically, walking toward the linen station. There he grabs a towel, a washcloth, a fitted sheet, a pillow and pillowcase, a sheet and a blanket.

“Remember, dude,” Gene calls after him as he walks back to his new room, “if you need anything, just ask!”

“I will,” he responds.

Jensen didn’t really have time to look at it earlier, but his room is small. It has two beds, two dressers and two cubbies for clothes and that’s it. The dirty walls are a pale blue, the plexiglass window that spans the wall behind the beds is scratched and covered in dust, the ceiling looks like one of those connect-the-dot pages (except that as far as Jensen can tell, there’s no discernible picture up there) and the light brown carpet looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since it was installed. Jensen sighs and moves his bag to the unoccupied cubby before putting the bedsheets on. When he’s done he grabs the teddy bear that Brandon packed for him and flops down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

‘I really hope I’m not here too long.’

'Why?' the little voice in his head asks. 'You obviously need the help.'

‘Yeah, but I’d go stark raving mad if I stay here too long.’

'You’re already stark raving mad.'

‘Shut up,’ Jensen tells the voice. ‘I’m trying to sleep.’

'I’ll still be here when you wake up, Jenny-boy. You can’t escape me.'

‘Yeah, yeah.’

Jensen rolls over, wincing a little as the blanket rubs against the bandages on his left arm, and closes his eyes. The last thing he sees in his mind’s eye before he falls asleep is Bran.


End file.
